He started as though he couldn't believe his eyes when he saw me. "The
Lord hath delivered mine enemy into my hand," shone in his evil little
face.
"Why, Mr. Tausig," I cried, before he could get his breath. "How odd to
meet you here! Did you find a baby, too?"
"Did I find--" He glared at me. "I find you; that's enough. Now--"
"But the luncheon was to be at twelve-thirty," I laughed. "And I
haven't changed my dress yet."
"You'll change it all right for something not so becoming if you don't
shell out that paper."
"Paper?"
"Yes, paper. Look here, if you give it back to me this
minute--now--I'll not prosecute you for--for--"
"For the sake of my reputation?" I suggested softly.
"Yes." He looked doubtfully at me, mistrusting the amiable deference
of my manner.
"That would be awfully good of you," I murmured.
He did not answer, but watched me as though he wasn't sure which way
I'd jump the next moment.
"I wonder what could induce you to be so forgiving," I went on
musingly. "What sort of paper is this you miss? It must be valuable--"
"Yes, it's valuable all right. Come on, now! Quit your fooling and
get down to business. I'm going to have that paper."
"Do you know, Mr. Tausig," I said impulsively, "if I were you, and
anybody had stolen a valuable paper from me, I'd have him arrested. I
would. I should not care a rap what the public exposure did to his
reputation, so long--so long," I grinned right up at him, "so long as
it didn't hurt me, myself, in the eyes of the law."
Mad? Oh, he was hopping! A German swear-word burst from him. I don't
know what it meant, but I can imagine.
"Look here, I give you one more chance," he squeaked; "if you don't--"
"What'll you do?"
I was sure I had him. I was sure, from the very whisper in which he
had spoken, that the last thing in the world he wanted was to have that
agreement made public by my arrest. But I tripped up on one thing. I
didn't know there was a middle way for a man with money.
His manner changed.
"Nance Olden," he said aloud now, "I charge you with stealing a
valuable private paper of mine from my desk. Here, Sergeant!"
I hadn't particularly noticed the Sergeant standing at the other door
with his back to us. But from the way he came at Tausig's call I knew
he'd had a private talk with him, and I knew he'd found the middle way.
"This girl's taken a paper of mine. I want her searched," Tausig cried.
"Do you mean," I said, "that you'll sign your name to such a charge
against me?"
He didn't answer. He had pulled the Sergeant down and was whispering
in his ear. I knew what that meant. It meant a special pull and a
special way of doing things and--
"You'll do well, my girl, to give up Mr. Tausig's property to him," the
Sergeant said stiffly.
"But what have I got that belongs to him?" I demanded.
He grinned and shrugged his big shoulders.
"We've a way of finding out, you know, here. Give it up or--"
"But what does he say I've taken? What charge is there against me?
Have you the right to search any woman who walks in here? And what in
the world would I want a paper of Tausig's for?"
"You won't give it up then?" He tapped a bell.
A woman came in. I had a bad minute there, but it didn't last; it
wasn't the matron I'd brought the baby to.
"You'll take this girl into the other room and search her thoroughly.
The thing we're looking for--" The Sergeant turned to Tausig.
"A small paper," he said eagerly. "A--a contract--just a single sheet
of legal cap paper it was type-written and signed by myself and some
other gentlemen, and folded twice."
The woman looked at me. She was a bit hard-mouthed, with iron-gray
hair, but her eyes looked as though they'd seen a lot and learned not
to flinch, though they still felt like it. I knew that kind of
look--I'd seen it at the Cruelty.
"What an unpleasant job this of yours is," I said to her, smiling up at
her for all the world as that tike of a baby had smiled at me, and
watching her melt just as I had. "I'll not make it a bit harder. This
thing's all a mistake. Which way? ... I'll come back, Mr. Tausig, to
receive your apology, but you can hardly expect me to go to lunch after
this."
He growled a wrathful, resenting mouthful. But he looked a bit puzzled
just the same.
He looked more puzzled yet, even bewildered, when we came back into the
main office a quarter of an hour later, the woman and I, and she
reported that no paper of any kind had she found.
Me? Oh, I was sweet amiability personified with the woman and with the
Sergeant, who began to back-water furiously. But with Tausig--
What? You don't mean to say you're not on, Mag? Oh, dear, dear, it's
well you had that beautiful wig of red hair that puts even Carter's in
the shade; for you'd never have been a success in--in other businesses
I might name.
Bamboozled the woman? Not a bit of it; you can't deceive women with
mouths and eyes like that. It was just that I'd had a flash of genius
in the minute I heard Tausig's voice, and in spite of my being so sure
he wouldn't have me arrested I'd-- Guess, Mag, guess! There was only
one way.
The baby, of course! In the moment I had--it wasn't long--I'd stooped
down, pretending to kiss that cherub good-by, and in a jiffy I'd pinned
that precious paper with a safety-pin to the baby's under-petticoat,
preferring that risk to--
Risk! I should say it was. And now it was up to Nance to make good.
While Tausig insisted and explained and expostulated and at last walked
out with the Sergeant--giving me a queer last look that was
half-cursing, half-placating--I stood chatting sweetly with the woman
who had searched me.
I didn't know just how far I might go with her. She knew the paper
wasn't on me, and I could see she was disposed to believe I was as nice
as she'd have liked me to be. But she'd had a lot of experience and
she knew, as most women do even without experience, that if there's not
always fire where there is smoke, it's because somebody's been clever
enough and quick enough to cover the blaze.
"Well, good-by," I said, putting out my hand. "It's been disagreeable
but I'm obliged to you for--why, where's my purse! We must have left
it--" And I turned to go back into the room where I'd undressed.
"You didn't have any."
The words came clear and cold and positive. Her tone was like an
icicle down my back.
"I didn't have any!" I exclaimed. "Why, I certainly--"
"You certainly had no purse, for I should have seen it and searched it
if you had."
Now, what do you think of a woman like that?
"Nancy Olden," I said to myself, more in sorrow than in anger, "you've
met your match right here. When a woman knows a fact and states it
with such quiet conviction, without the least unnecessary emphasis and
not a superfluous word, 'ware that woman. There's only one game to
play to let you hang round here a bit longer and find out what's become
of the baby. Play it!"